Revelation

'And I tell you again, it has nothing to do with the abbey.' Impatience entered his voice. 'God's bones, man, I knew Goddard. I used to talk to him, he was one of the few monks in this place with any intelligent conversation. But all he ever cared about was his comfort and his social status. The idea of him killing people to fulfil some prophecy in Revelation is — ludicrous.'

'If a man is possessed by the devil,' Harsnet said quietly, 'it does not matter what he was like before. He will be consumed by the desire to do the devil's bidding.'

Benson stopped playing with his quill. 'Possession.' He laughed cynically. 'Is that what you think? That idea will get you nowhere.'

'I saw the wall paintings telling the story of the Apocalypse in the chapterhouse,' I said. 'They are being covered up now, behind shelves and documents.'

'Yes, that was my idea to use the chapterhouse to store surplus records. We have plenty of space in the precinct now. What of it?'

'The monks must have seen those paintings hundreds of times. So must you. I do not think one could look at them day in, day out, and not think about the story they portrayed.'

He shrugged. 'I used hardly to notice them, except to think what poor quality the paintings were.'

'They could still affect a certain type of man.' I met Benson's gaze. He stared at me fixedly for a moment, then pointed his quill at me. 'I know who you are now. I have been trying to think why your name is familiar. You are the lawyer the King mocked at York two years ago. What was it he called you? A bent spider? I heard that story when he returned. People said he compared you to some big Yorkshire fellow you were with. It went down well with the Yorkers.'

I did not reply. 'You are no man of God, sir,' Harsnet said quietly.

Benson turned to him, suddenly angry. 'I am a realist. In the end people like me cause less trouble in the world. When I was a young monk, I saw the system was corrupt and rotten. So I made myself known to Lord Cromwell — there was a realist, if ever there was one — and he gained me the post of abbot. And I made sure this house made a quiet surrender, with no opposition and no scandal, because the King would not have wanted that in the royal resting place. He intends to be buried there one day. And he will be angry if you make a scandal now. So be warned. You may get more than an insult from him the next time.' Benson stood up, indicating the interview was over. I saw from Harsnet's expression that he would have liked nothing better than to take the dean in for questioning himself. But Benson was right, he was a powerful man, and in the absence of any evidence Harsnet had to proceed cautiously. I thought he had not handled the dean well, making his hostility so obvious.

OUTSIDE THE HOUSE, Harsnet turned to me. I could see that he was battling with anger. 'Did you believe him?' he asked.

'I think he, too, is hiding something. But either he believes it is immaterial to our investigation, or he thinks himself safe because of his powerful contacts.'

'His contacts wouldn't protect him if he were hiding information about a murderer four times over.'

'No.' I paused. 'At least, they shouldn't.'

Harsnet set his lips tight. 'Let's see if Lockley says something that will help us put Benson under a bit of pressure. Now I must find a couple of constables and pick Lockley up. I will see you tonight at six, Serjeant Shardlake.' He bowed and strode away.

'I don't envy Lockley,' Barak said.

'No.' I looked back at the dean's house. 'A realist, Benson called himself. Well, he is. I should think, like most of the monks who helped Cromwell, his motives were money and power. I wonder if he ever thinks about the monks who were thrown out, I wonder if his conscience ever pricks him.'

'Didn't look to me like he had one.' Barak winced slightly as a huge block of stone crashed down from the refectory. He looked around the demolition work. Then he laughed.

'What's so funny?'

'That arsehole Benson going on about how he became dean of this place. Look at it. He's master of a heap of rubble.'

'He still runs Westminster Abbey church under the King's favour,' I said seriously.

Barak looked over at the huge church. 'So Henry wants to be buried there,' he said quietly.

'The sooner the better,' I said, more quietly still.

HARSNET LIVED at the top end of Westminster, in a row of fine old houses in King Street, just down from the Whitehall Palace gatehouse where pennants flew, outlined against the clear blue sky, the setting sun reflected in the tall gatehouse windows. I turned to Harsnet's front door, which had a brightly polished knocker in the shape of a lion's head. I wondered what dinner with his family would be like, but even more I wondered what Lockley had told him.